This Is Not A Ghost Story
by balthazars
Summary: Sometimes your best friend jumps of a building and there's nothing to do but keep breathing and hope you survive the fall / In Progress.


_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this fic. Full credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for coming up with these characters and to the writers and creators of BBC's Sherlock._

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It's been over a month since the incident_ –_ he refuses to call it anything else – and he's found himself settling into a routine of sorts.

He sits in his chair each night, fingers clenched tightly around a mug as he sips his coffee, barely noticing the burning liquid or the stiff material of the chair. He can hear the clock ticking some nights; though tonight the only sound he hears is the rain drumming on the window.

His eyes are transfixed on the clock, not really noticing the movement of the hands but needing someplace to stare at as he thinks. Most nights he loses track of the time, unaware until the clock chimes four, five, six times and he can see the dim light of dawn start to flood into the apartment.

Time passes slowly, he observes, when a person doesn't sleep, but each time he tries to close his eyes he can see the images as though they're seared onto his eyelids, and he knows that to sleep would be to relive them over and over again.

When he closes his eyes he can still see Sherlock as he was in those final moments, still as a statue on top of the building, the tips of his feet hanging precariously over the edge. He's not sure he'll ever forget the panic of knowing that a slight stumble could send his friend – _best _friend – to his death.

The worst part is when his eyes remain closed. When the images change and Sherlock isn't perched on top of the building anymore, no, he's splayed on the ground, black curls matted with blood that leaves a trail of scarlet on the sidewalk. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, full of betrayal and accusation, demanding to know why he didn't _do _anything. Telling him that he could have convinced Sherlock not to jump, that if he'd only gotten there earlier then Sherlock would still be alive.

And he's not alive. As much as John can bury his emotions within himself and go through the motions of everyday life without really living, pretending that everything is just fine, it doesn't change the fact that Sherlock's _dead_, and he's not coming back. Never again will he find eyeballs in the microwave – 'it's for an experiment' his flatmate would proclaim if John ever asked - or watch as Sherlock clambers over the furniture in that peculiar fashion of his.

In another situation it might have been funny, that the things that irritated him about Sherlock would be the things he'd miss the most when Sherlock was gone. But in this situation? He can't find it anything other than sad.

He's unsure of how long he sits for, staring at the clock without seeing it, it could have been mere minutes or whole hours for all he knew. But at some point his phone begins to vibrate, snapping him out of his thoughts and back to reality.

It's Mycroft, of course, wanting to know when he should come over to retrieve his brother's possessions from the apartment. Subconsciously, he glances over at Sherlock's things; boxes filled to the brim with everything Sherlock owned, stacked on top of each other in the corner of the apartment.

John hasn't touched them since he packed them up, can't even stand to _look _at them. They've been left behind to gain dust in an attic somewhere until eventually they get thrown out, and looking at them only serves to make John think, what if Sherlock ends up like that? What if he fades away, pushed aside by new people and places and things until he's a vague memory lurking in the abandoned corners of John's brain?

He quickly shoves the thought to the back of his mind and turns his attention back to his phone, one finger tapping the side anxiously as he thinks of a reply.

_Come get them as soon as possible._

Like his brother, Mycroft texts back quickly; John's only just placed the phone on the table when it vibrates again.

_I'll be there to collect them in an hour – MH_

The corners of John's lips twitch up into a slight smile. Sherlock always signed his text messages with his initials, for some reason that John could never comprehend.

He'd have been fine remaining in the chair until Mycroft arrived and took Sherlock's things away, but a small voice in the back of his head, a voice that often sounded much like Sherlock told him that Mycroft couldn't find the apartment like_ this, _messy and uncared for.

He moves around the apartment stiffly, moving things around and brushing dust off the shelves, his thoughts always returning to the pile of boxes stacked in the corner.

He doesn't know why he approaches them, let alone why he reaches into one and pulls out a small wooden object. He runs his fingers over the strings of the instrument, memories of Sherlock standing by the window with a bow in hand flooding through his head.

He isn't aware of anyone else in the flat until he hears the cough come from behind him, loud and slightly uncomfortable, causing him to whirl around, the violin still clutched in one hand as he frantically wipes at tears that he wasn't aware had escaped his eyes.

It occurs to him as he stands locked in a stare with the other man, that Mycroft looks about as bad as he, himself feels. His eyes are rimmed with red, and he too looks like he hasn't slept since the fall. As John is considering this, Mycroft drops his gaze to the violin, an almost painful expression crossing his face for a second before his mask is back.

"John."

"Mycroft."

"Is this all of it?" He crosses the room in a couple long strides, stopping in front of the boxes.

Yeah," John placed the violin gently back in a box. "He didn't have many belongings."

It was true, Sherlock had never been a man of many possessions, but still, the apartment felt strangely empty with them packed up like this. He found his gaze returning once again to the violin.

"You can have it, if you want it preserved so much," Mycroft replies as he picks up the first of the boxes, his tone implying that the violin was just another object that belonged to Sherlock, though John didn't believe this at all. It was weird in a way, seeing Mycroft collecting the boxes himself. It's something John always figured he'd have people do for him. "I have no use for it anyway."

John supposed he didn't have any use for it either, he didn't know how to play the violin any more than Sherlock had known the planets of the solar system.

Still, the violin had been one of Sherlock's most prized possessions, and he supposed that made it important to him, because he was Sherlock's flatmate and he _had _loved the music that Sherlock would play.

He certainly _hadn't_ loved the instrument because of how Sherlock's long, nimble fingers had looked pulling the bow back and forth, or the peaceful, almost _happy _expression on Sherlock's face as he played.

Mycroft was carrying the last of the boxes out of the apartment when he spoke again, more timidly than he had before, though his usual cold front remained intact. "I know how you feel, John."

"Do you, really?" Mycroft's brow furrows for a second at the sarcasm in John's tone, opening his mouth to respond but seemingly changing his mind last second. He bows his head for a minute, staring at the contents of the last box before looking back up at John.

"Yes, I do. He was my brother, you know."

John snorted at this, "Could have fooled me."

"I'm the British Government; I can't appear to be falling apart. That doesn't mean that I don't care about what happened to my brother."

"So what? You just forget about him, pretend that nothing happened?"

"You think I could just forget about my own brother?" There's aggression in Mycroft's tone now, as if he's daring John to defy him.

"Don't you?" His best friend is gone; why does it matter to John if he's angering Mycroft?

"It's called an appearance, John," His patience is wearing thin now. "Smiling for the public, pretending that you're fine."

"Pretending." He has a point, really. John needs a paying job, now that Sherlock isn't around, and no one's going to hire a man who looks like he hasn't slept for months and may be on the verge of a mental breakdown.

The corner of Mycroft's lip twists up as he walks towards the door frame, turning to face John before he steps out into the hallway. "After all, caring isn't an advantage."

He turns again and is gone, leaving John to dwell on those words. Words that he's been told before but never given much thought to. And, after a while, John feels he has to agree, caring is most definitely _not _an advantage.

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**A/N: I started this story a while back for Camp Nano, and I'm just now getting around to editing it and posting it. Reviews are always appreciated and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter.**


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